Of Cleanliness and Godhood
by barbiehighheels
Summary: Hawke decides to clean Fenris's dirty mansion while he's out one day, and his reaction is bizarre but delicious.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first time posting on ! I'm trying to migrate some of my "better" (lol) stuff over to . This is a short FHawke/Fenris fic that can be summed up as "baby-steps BDSM." (dom!Fenris)

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He wasn't home. That was a good thing.

For whatever reason, _Isabela_ had been, however, and she'd burst into a fit of tinkling, amused laughter when Hawke showed up to Fenris's home with her buckets and brooms. And Isabela would've stayed, too, had Hawke not frog-marched the pirate towards the door and made her leave. Isabela kissed Hawke on the cheek in farewell and patted her bottom with a wink before telling her "Good luck, then." The pirate was still laughing at Hawke's get-up as she sauntered away, dark curves incongruous and eye-popping amidst the ivy and mansions that quiet morning in Hightown.

Once alone, Hawke nudged the door closed with her hip and let all the cleaning supplies clatter to the floor. She took a deep breath and surveyed the task.

The stone mansion Fenris lived in hadn't been clean since...since before they'd slaughtered the previous occupants. Remains of those slavers and mercenaries who'd been hunting Fenris still decorated flagstones.

But. That had been over five years ago.

The place was choked with dust, especially the rooms downstairs that were never used—Fenris typically haunted the master bedroom upstairs. He left mostly to raid the wine cellar, it seemed. The walls were cracked, spiderwebs crowded every corner, and the stone floor was worn; tiles broken and chipped, and coated with grit. Hawke couldn't fix the cracks in the walls or the broken stones, but Andraste's _tits_ , at least she could clean.

There was a small part of her that was very much hoping to please Fenris with her efforts, but she didn't want to linger on her unrequited bloody pining overlong. They were friends. Just friends. And friends do nice things for friends. Friends clean other _friends_ ' filthy fucking houses when _friends_ are former slaves with hang-ups about housecleaning.

Right?

"Right," she decided, lying to herself and reaching for a broom. She began to sweep the floors. The foyer was quick work but the main room it led to proved a more difficult challenge—literal _piles_ of dust. She nudged skeletons with her toes, and performed her noises of disgust for an audience of unappreciative spiders when the skeletons rattled and fell apart. The clacking dry bones were taken out to the refuse heap in the back alley, their final resting place amidst stinking feces and rotten meat. Fitting company for slavers, really.

Hawke used the broom to swat down some of the lower spiderwebs, too. The ceilings were vaulted in the main room so some of the more enterprising arachnids would likely live up there, forever, but the ones stupid enough to set camp at broom-height were getting unceremoniously swept and squished. She thought about the way Fenris had once said, " _I like the spiders. They eat the flies,_ " and she'd bitten her tongue from snapping, " _Yes well you wouldn't have flies if you cleaned every once in awhile, now would you?_ "

She swept the stairs. The carpet had grown ragged and thin on the smooth stone steps, and with each _swish_ of the broom she brushed loose more threads, which didn't approve the appearance overmuch. She frowned at that.

Once all the dust had been cleared from the floors, she navigated through the kitchens to the water pump out by the back entrance and began filling buckets with cold, fresh water. This would be the worst part. This was always her least favorite chore—Hawke _hated_ mopping floors.

She lugged heavy, dripping buckets back to the main room and set them down with a slight slosh. She hummed a little, to try and make herself enjoy the hated task a bit more, but the room was too cavernous and Hawke didn't enjoy the sound of her own voice enough to want it echoing and occupying so much empty space around her.

She did not think about whose voice she wanted to echo in that room. She did _not_.

She grumbled, frustrated, when the mop was too soft—it moved some of the grime around, granted, so she _could_ just paint clean one giant penis on the floor and leave it at that—but she and Fenris weren't exactly on "practical joke penis" terms, and he'd react poorly. The mop swirled around grime, but it was too soft for getting up any of the black grit stuck steadfast to the stones.

She flung the mop handle away from herself in disgust, letting it clack loudly against the tiles. She'd have to get on her hands and knees and scrub, then. Shit.

Hawke went poking about the servant's quarters for a wire, or maybe boar-bristle scrub brush, scratching absently at the bodice of her dress. She'd worn something she didn't care if she ruined, which, as it happens, was a two-sizes-too-small sky blue house dress Orana had got for her. It was stretched taut across her waist and chest, and if she took a deep breath, she could feel the stitches of the damned thing reining her ribs in, " _Whoa, there_!" before threatening to pop. Orana, Maker bless her, had been so crestfallen at the ill fit of the dress that Hawke hadn't the heart to do anything but wear it with a constrained smile and assure the woman it was fine. In her head she was already rehearsing how best to later exclaim, " _Oh, no, Orana! I seem to have made a dreadful mess of it while cleaning! Couldn't be helped, I'm afraid._ "

"Ah!" Her eyes lit on a scrub brush in the kitchens. It was high on a shelf, probably used for scouring dishes and not floors, but it would do the trick. Hawke hitched her skirt up around her thighs and hoisted herself on top of the rough granite counter, cold against her bare knees. It was slightly out of her grasp. She reached, straining up, as the dress strained the _other_ way; deep neckline pressing a hard and uncomfortable line down across tops of her breasts. She should just stand, really, but if she could just—nudge the damn thing—a little—

"Hawke!"

"Shit!" was her automatic and immediate answer. Startled, she lost her balance and braced a hand on the wall in front of her, before twisting to peek at Fenris in the kitchen doorway. His sword was raised, and there was a discarded bag of market belongings dropped and scattered a few paces behind him. He must've heard her noise and thought there was a bandit about.

He lowered his sword, and the lyrium brands entwining his skin dimmed as his mood did. He furrowed his brow and peered at her from beneath a hank of white hair that was forever falling across his eyes. "What are you _doing_?"

"I'm looking for a scrub brush."

"Why?"

"Because the sad mop just couldn't cut it with that floor."

"Why?"

"Because I'm cleaning your house!"

" _Why_?" he growled.

She looked him in the eye and kept her face level. "Because it's filthy, Fenris."

He curled his lip at her slightly, a ghost of a snarl. His eyes flicked down and then Hawke remembered, she'd hitched her dress skirt nearly up to her bottom and was kneeling atop a countertop in this elf's kitchen. The elvhen man who she'd quietly yearned for with a keening, terrible desperation following a single night spent together three years ago.

That was enough to make Hawke spin around, hiding her furious blush, and resume reaching for the scrub brush. She should've just stood on the counter but at that point the thought of clambering up gracelessly, skirts in hand, while Fenris watched was just too mortifying to endure. So sod it. She strained.

She pulled her hand down when he entered her vision, and sat back on her haunches to watch him. Fenris gave her a very significant _look_ of some kind; who knows really, another degree of brooding that left her feeling chastised—and used his foot to kick out the step stool from under the cabinet she perched on. He stepped on top of it, leisurely picked up the scrub brush, and held it out to her.

"Oh," Hawke said. "Thanks."

"Hm." He made it sound disapproving and polite at the same time.

"Well." Hawke hopped off the counter, and raised the scrub brush. "I'm off, then!" She turned away too quickly to be sure, but it had _almost_ looked like Fenris was smiling. Almost.

Once back in the main room, Hawke picked a corner at random, and pushed the bucket towards it with her foot. She used her dress to pad her knees as she knelt, giddy with the prospect of ruining the garment. She dipped the brush in the soapy water and leaned forward as she began to scour.

Ten minutes of scrubbing later, she hated Fenris. Forget ever loving him. Forget fantasizing about his hips, his lips, his fingers on her flesh. Nope. Nevermind. She hated him. Hated this.

Twenty minutes more, her arm was sore, but she loved Fenris again.

An hour more, she'd cleaned half the floor, but she'd begun to hypothesize on how to use her magics to finish off the other half. She was a mage, after all, wasn't she? If she could conjure ice, why not a bit of a spring shower?

Three minutes later, Fenris was thundering down the stairs, demanding to know what that noise had been.

"Nothing!" She tried to use her dress hem to cover the patch of frozen flagstones, ice creaking in the cracks. That wasn't enough. Shit—she sat on it. Sat. On the patch of ice. She used her arse to cover it. "Everything's fine," she grinned, a little breathless.

He knew she was lying, obviously, but didn't seem too worried about it. He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips as he returned upstairs.

Hawke plucked her bum off the patch of ice with a string of curses.

She had only tried to cast a spell she'd cast thousands of times, wherein she conjures a block of ice, except this time she'd tried to think _wet thoughts_. Instead of the nice, cleansing, magical rain she'd been picturing, however—ice had formed between the cracks in the flagstones, sitting and squeaking inside the seams of the stones and breaking them even more.

Ah, well. She'd tried.

She huffed, tugged the neckline of the dress higher again, and got back on her knees to finish.

Hawke found a bit of peace as time wore on, losing herself to the task and the mindless motions. She had maybe a quarter of the room left to scrub and rinse as she worked her way towards the stairs, when she heard a noise she couldn't recognize, something discordant from the settling and sighing sounds of the mansion's old stones. She looked up to find Fenris descending the stairs, bringing out a small wooden chair in front of him. He had a book folded under his arm and carried a cup of tea. He reached the first flat landing of the steps—the halfway point between upstairs and down—and placed the chair there, adjusting it to face Hawke, before disinterestedly taking a seat. He looped one ankle over his other knee and appeared to relax into the chair as he opened his book, and began sipping his tea.

Well, then.

Hawke fought the urge to yank up the front of her dress again. She gulped, her mind a blank. She'd been _doing_ something, right?

 _Ugh_ , she remembered, leaning forward for the scrub brush again. Her hands were raw, but she eased the pain by conjuring little icicles into her fingertips, and helping herself to health potions.

For a time she found it difficult to focus on the task, and caught herself scrubbing the same spot over and over again. His low chuckle would interrupt her frazzled thoughts, but when Hawke glanced up—Fenris was looking down at his book and she didn't know if his amusement was for it or she. She didn't know what was worse, actually—if Fenris _was_ or _wasn't_ watching her.

She knelt on all fours to work out a scorch mark that'd probably once come from her fire staff, anyway. She noticed her dress neckline was pulled taut, precariously low, and stealing a peek up through her bangs—yes. Fenris had noticed, as well.

She looked back down, stowing away her smile. Her movements slowed as she considered, arm lazily following the motion of scrubbing without putting any of the effort behind it. Fenris's book lay forgotten in his lap.

He was watching her in earnest now, having dropped his pretense of a taking a nice afternoon tea on the stairs while a buxom friend in a tight dress just happened to be scrubbing the floor at his feet.

Hawke considered her next move carefully. Fenris was too sly, too _smart_ , for games—he could always tell when he was being played. He would be able to tell if Hawke had come to clean his house just to get closer to him, and the thought embarrassed her. Well—alright, she maybe had despite convincing herself otherwise—but in any case, she was going to make him work for that knowledge. Her intentions were good, and she was going to finish cleaning the bloody floor.

She pushed her shirtsleeves up higher; the unspoken universal signal for " _Let's get to work._ " She again began to scrub the floor, and hoped he'd enjoy the show.

When she finished and reached the foot of the stairs, she drew upright, sitting on her heels to wipe the sweat from her brow with her shoulder. Her back was aching. She arched, pressing her fingers into her lower back—oh, he liked that.

She was torn between two desires: one being dictated by her exhaustion was to give up, go home, and say she was too tired to finish today but she'd be back tomorrow—and the other being dictated by her—well—was to stay. And play. With him. With whatever it was they were doing. Whatever this was, happening between them.

His lips were parted like he wanted to say something, and he took a deep breath as if to say it, once, and again, but he then let a tiny smirk curve his parted lips instead. His hands, oh, those beautiful bronze hands, curled over his knees.

Right. So. She was staying. Definitely.

She had a thought and knew what she wanted to do next, but it would likely ruin his carpet. _Oh, sod it, I'll buy him new ones_ , she decided. She bunched her skirts in her hand, raising them to free her knees and crawl forward slightly. His eyes shot to the curve of her bare thighs, and Hawke hoped he was wishing that she would lift the hem just a _bit_ higher for him. Two inches more and he'd know the color of her smalls.

She tossed the scrub brush aside, she wouldn't need it for this next part—and hefted up the heavy bucket full of clean water she'd been using for rinsing. She knelt below him, at the foot of the stairs, skirts bunched lewdly in her fist, tight bodice doing something stupid with her breasts, and a bucket of cold water in her hand. She looked up at him. He knew something was coming. His nostrils flared with every breath.

She let the moment linger, hesitating. Should she speak? Should she avail herself of her own Ferelden farm girl accent and play it up as some simpering servant, sultry and whispering, " _Your floors are very dirty, my lord_ "? Would he like that? Would he want her? Would it ruin this moment? Is watching her clean his house an erotic act for Fenris because he used to be a slave?

She was never good with words, anyway, so deciding quickly, Hawke perched the bucket, unbalanced, on a step above her and "let" it fall forward; the water splashed over the threadbare carpet, soaking it, and more importantly—soaking her.

"Whoops," she whispered, feeling silly. A shuddering breath carried her through to the next smile. The dress, already indecent, was made downright vulgar once wet. She wore no petticoats, only a linen shift and her smalls, so now the fabric of the dress clung to her hips, outlined her thighs, and rasped against her raised nipples. She shivered, a little.

Fenris sat back in his seat and hissed some swears in Tevene, looking bleak. She had no idea if that was a good or bad reaction. Should she apologize for the carpet? They stared at each other, and Fenris must've noticed Hawke withering because he tilted his chin down towards his feet and made it clear: _Come here_.

She swallowed; dry mouth in a wet dress. _Don't think about wetness, Hawke. Or do maybe._

She wondered if this were normal, as she crawled forward, up the stairs towards Fenris. She'd never had a proper courtship; she'd had tumbles in hay and fumbles in the dark. And then she'd had Fenris. And after that, no one else had mattered. Is this how people show love—wordless and strange, crass, vulgar displays?

She'd slept with Fenris once and the memory was enough to fuel her fantasies for the next three years. She'd launched thousands of daydreams of this man and what his fingers and mouth and cock were capable of doing to her. So she maybe had an inkling, after all, of how people like Fenris can accept love. She'd imagined asking him the same question over and over again in her head. She'd let the seedling, the idea, take root in the darkest grove of her sexual fantasies.

She reached his chair on the landing, and knelt in front of him. Fenris leaned forward, face masked with warmth and a fondness that, however genuine, was overtaking something fiercer—something _hungrier_ that his eyes weren't lying about. A desire too desperate to conceal.

He brushed wisps of Hawke's sweaty hair away from her face. She closed her eyes, basking in the touch. Keeping her eyes closed, she took a short moment to marshal her bravado before she opened her mouth and began, "Fenris, I was wondering...do you—do—" She stopped herself, suddenly too afraid to ask. Her eyes flew open and she winced. She was going to ruin this all, she really was. She'd never have a chance with him again—

"Go on." He instructed, his voice was soft and low but commanding. He looked as if he were bracing himself, too.

"Do you"—she swallowed, shaking her head a little—"Fenris. Do you want me to call you ' _Master_ '?"

He shot to his feet and the chair clattered backwards. His lyrium brands flashed white with fury and he snatched Hawke by her elbow, yanking her upright with bruising force. She closed her eyes because she was mortified, not because she was afraid. She knew he would never harm her, so she wasn't afraid of his rage, but the pit of her stomach was plummeting, knowing she'd just fucked up ever—

" _Yes_."

Her eyes flew open. They were standing so close. Fenris was within kissing distance. His brands glowed, his green eyes glinted through his white hair, and—there. Etched into his face. Burrowed into the furrow of his brow: not just desire, but _need_.

"Alright," Hawke whispered. "I will."


	2. Chapter 2

Dizzy with nerves and choking on a series of strange thrills, Hawke let herself be led up the stairs. Instead of going into the master bedroom as she'd expected, Fenris brought her into a side room, one she'd not set foot in since they'd taken the mansion. It had been a guest bedroom five years ago, but as he pulled her into the space, she realized he'd converted it into a lush little bathing chamber. He'd ripped the rugs out to display the bare floorboards beneath: well-trodden wood worn down to a dull gloss. The center of the room was dominated by a reclining tub, the pounded copper kind nobles favor with painted enamel insides and one wall of the oval tub sloping high and out for the purpose of laying one's head on. The hearth still smoldered with quiet embers, and beside it were two large casks of clean water for bathing. Fenris began to build up the fire again, and Hawke hesitated at the edge of the room, suddenly feeling deeply insecure about the way she smelled.

Fenris glanced over at her as the fire flickered to a proper size, alive, and he read the apprehension ensnaring her—"Is something the matter?"

"No, I just...I didn't realize I smelled so foul, is all." She remarked, feigning a casual disinterest and plucking the wet dress from her skin.

"Hawke."

She refused to look up at him. She was too busy having a good, self-indulgent sulk and entertaining the notion that by cleaning his house, she'd made herself too dirty and sweaty to even appeal to him.

" _Hawke_."

She looked up. His eyes crinkled at the corners but Fenris was much too aloof to simply _show_ his amusement at her pout.

"You worked very hard, and I am thankful for your efforts. I hoped that I could...demonstrate some gratitude in return. If you would like."

"Oh."

"You smell fine."

She snorted.

"You do," he insisted, arching one eyebrow. He reached for her wrist and led her closer. "I promise. I didn't intend to hurt your feelings."

Hawke bit her lip; the first thought that had bubbled up to her tongue at that moment was to ask where this concern had been three years ago when he'd dashed out of her bedroom post-fuck. Now _that_ had hurt her feelings.

"You're shivering," he murmured. He watched her body closely, his eyes trailing down her chest, across her arms, over her stomach, down...

"Well, you know. Damp damn dress would be _my_ first suspect."

He chuckled and she beamed at it.

"Before we—are you hungry? Have you eaten?" he suddenly asked, raising his face to hers. At the mention of food, Hawke's stomach was all too eager to answer with a loud growl before she could even pretend otherwise.

"I thought you might've worked up an appetite. I was returning from the market, actually, when I found you here—so I have a few things downstairs I'd forgotten about. I'll go prepare us some lunch." He stepped back, cocking his head to survey her. "Stay here, and get out of that dress. Towels are in the cupboard," came his parting instruction as he swept from the room.

"Alright…" Hawke trailed off, watching him go. She'd envisioned some hopelessly romantic scene where Fenris helped her remove the dress, one button at a time, smoldering-hot kisses soothing the cold skin he exposed bit by bit. But as she struggled with the too-small dress—now rendered ridiculously difficult to wrestle with while wet—she was grateful for his absence as she flailed and fought the fabric.

She huffed and shivered, naked, while rummaging through the cupboards for his stash of linens. These, at least, he kept fresh and laundered. She helped herself to a generous pile and inhaled deeply, delighted to discover that the scent Fenris had always carried came from clean towels he kept stored in cedar cupboards. The knowledge felt precious to her—as if by divining the origins of his enticing smell they'd somehow become closer.

Fenris returned to find her swaddled in no less than four of his towels. One she wore draped about her head like a cloak hood, one pulled like a shawl over her bare shoulders, one wrapped around her torso, and the last clutched in her hands—she was quick to yank that one from her face once he entered. She stood tall and proud, daring him to laugh.

Fenris pursed his lips around a furtive smile. "My lady," he smirked, somewhat teasing, and offered her a glass of wine.

She accepted it silently, keeping the new word between them poised and waiting on her lips—Master. He'd said _My lady_ and she could have gone cheeky and said _Master_ in return, but Hawke wanted to be very, very cautious with her usage of that word. She'd seen how it had affected him so profoundly, and she yearned to exercise it in the correct circumstance—but this was not yet the time for it. She would await the exact moment. If she got it right, she surmised, his heart would finally fall open to her and she'd plunder the spoils. She'd be special. She'd be the one who won him.

She sipped her wine, sick with longing. Fenris had brought up cheeses and breads, placed on a pewter platter along with with fresh fruit. It was all arranged prettily. Neatly. Hawke despised the reminders of his former slavery. She cringed, knowing where he'd learned that.

He scraped a chair up to the sidetable with their food and gestured for her to sit as he went in search of another chair. She did. Hoping to appease her rude stomach, she stuffed four grapes and an apple slice into her mouth while he was gone, completing perfunctory chews and swallows just as he reentered. She acted as if she'd done the polite thing and waited for him to return before eating. If he took notice of the sudden appearance of open gaps on the platter, he made no mention of it. He'd brought back his book and tea, too.

Hawke shook out the cloth napkin—he'd folded it into a pristine, starched blossom.

She was wearing two towels too many, so she cast off her cape and cowl. This left her in the one towel wrapped around her torso, tucked to a fold under her arms. Her breasts were too large for such an arrangement to be comfortable, but the indignity of having to _ask the elf_ for a bigger towel, please was too much to bear. She squashed them down and kept her arms pinned, intending to keep the towel in place by sheer force of will and tucked elbows. And besides, consequences should it slip would perhaps not be so bad anyway. She took another sip of the wine, this swallow followed with her stupid, silly grin. She was too nervous to eat in front of him. Fenris raised one corner of his mouth in return; a dark smirk.

Fenris never _grinned_ , and Hawke didn't quite know why. He had a beautiful mouth. He smirked, he smiled, he chuckled, he rumbled, he quirked his lips, he even laughed, but he never quite _grinned_. Too undignified, perhaps. He was, after all, effortlessly composed—elegant, even in anger. Even when roaring, covered in blood, sword slashing in battle. Or maybe Fenris never wore a witless and shit-eating grin because he'd forgotten how? Hawke, at times, struggled with how to navigate alongside the life of a former slave. She wanted to get it right. She wanted to be perfect.

"Have you, ah—" She paused when his hand held out a grape. He was _feeding her a grape_.

She took it delicately between her teeth before deciding _Void take it_ , and wrapped her lips around his fingertips with a quick brush of her tongue to take the grape he'd offered her.

His eyes widened and he inhaled, hard. Hawke mentally congratulated herself on how good at seduction she was. She should write a book. Wait. Varric should write a book.

Fenris cleared his throat. "Forgive me. What was it you wanted to ask?" His voice was husky.

"I wanted to ask if you'd read any good books lately."

Hawke and Fenris shared a secret smile between them, one laden with the private knowledge of his reading habits and Hawke could have made a very unladylike cackle of triumph; so happy she was at the inclusion. She _knew_ him—knew this private, secret thing about him. He trusted her enough to know. She clung to that fact, growing needy and restless and sitting in a towel. The glimmering of hope in her heart found a better footing.

"I have, actually." He gave her a kind smile, a close-lipped but warm one, and it touched his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. He began to explain his most recent library acquisitions, admitting he favored science and history manuals because it interested him, but also because their sparse, clean prose was easier for him to understand. Hawke hung on his every word, watching the way his mouth formed sounds with a fascinated, devoted reverence.

She noticed, then, the book set under his empty tea cup from that morning. It was the Book of Shartan—the book _she'd_ given him. The gift that had led to his confession of illiteracy, and her insistence of it never being too late to learn. That was the book he'd brought down with him, to watch her. She hadn't noticed until now.

He quieted, watching her reaction. His scrutiny came from under cover of the hair falling into his eyes.

"And that one?" she asked, with a slight tilt of her chin towards the book.

"It was...life-changing."

Hawke's breath hitched in her throat. If this was to be it, if that moment from her fantasies was coming alive, the moment where he'd confess having feelings for her and finally put his fucking hands on her body again—a rather _nice_ body, she lamented, which had known no other hands aside her own the past three years—she was going to be perfect. And thus, Hawke stood and whipped the towel from herself. She was going to take a bath. And be a better perfect from it.

She padded over to the bathing water casks, leaving Fenris sputtering behind her. It was nice, him being the unmade one, for a change. She filled a bucket and brought it to the tub, letting it splash in since she was too eager to care to pour. She was relieved to find delicate Dwarven fire runes decorating the bottom perimeter of the tub. At home, Hawke conjured fireballs to heat her bathwater, but it tended to make a great sodden mess of things and then she'd have to wait for the water to cool down from _literally boiling_ before getting in.

She kept her back to Fenris as she dumped another bucket of water in, but she could feel his stark gaze adhered to her. She ignored him (or pretended to, rather) and walked naked to fill the bucket again. She knew what she looked like, and wasn't worried or insecure about her body. She knew she had no reason to be. Hawke may be marred by battle marks but she was a great fan of scars, personally—white, raised ropes of branded lyrium being a particular favorite.

She pointed her pert ass towards Fenris and bent over the edge of the tub under pretext of swirling her hand through the waters to test the temperature. She heard him suck back a sharp breath and hold it in.

"Are you _really_ going to just watch me fill this _whole_ tub alone?" She straightened, arching a brow, and flicked water from her fingertips.

Fenris jumped up, reaching for the other bucket with such immediacy that Hawke felt guilty. She should _think_ , before she asks these things. She should think before she speaks. She should remember who he is and what he's been through. She should show more hazard with making demands of him.

After chiding herself, she grew shy. The direct consequence of her guilt was suddenly being unable to look him in the eye. They remained quiet while carting buckets of water, one by one, to the tub. The runes did their thing and the water started to steam, until the room was made hot and humid. The idiot fire still crackled happily in the hearth, blithely continuing to warm the place up even though its services were no longer needed.

Hawke inhaled for a moment, pausing to hold her hair off the back of her neck. On his way for more water, Fenris saw that. He stopped where he stood and leaned close to blow a cooling breath against the back of Hawke's bared neck. When her eyes fluttered shut and her chin dropped forward to her chest, Fenris continued past her like nothing had happened. Once the tub was full, he resumed his post at the sidetable against the wall. He ignored his empty glass, and curled his fingers around the neck of the wine bottle instead. He took a swig and licked up a lone red drop from his bottom lip.

Hawke turned away, reluctant to drag her eyes away from his but eager to address the fact that she was an overwrought, sweaty mess. She plunged one leg into the tub and then the other, clutching the sides as she hissed and lowered herself into the steaming hot water. Once sat, she spat a few swears out. The water was up to her chest, licking and lapping over her flushed skin with a stinging heat like fire-forged needles. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and her hair started to frizz. Maybe this had been a bad idea. Ice soon flared from her fingertips, so she put it to work—Hawke patted the water around her, pressed her icy hands against her neck, held the blessed coldness flat to her chest. She was soothed by the dual sensations of cold and hot. When she glanced over at Fenris, he was staring; somewhat disapproving.

"Oh, right." She remembered, and was contrite. "I'm sorry. It's—honestly, I didn't even think. I'm sorry."

He accepted her apology politely. Hawke began to slink lower into the bath, until the high sides of the tub blocked her from view, and only her face from the nose-up was left above the water. She breathed through her nose, and watched the ripples of water reacting from it. Fenris and Hawke sank into a silence, but it was a testy one. She had no idea what Fenris had grown quiet over, but as for herself—Hawke was silently despairing and wondering if they would be doomed to continue this dance of hesitation and apology—wherein they trod upon eggshells with one another, too afraid of crossing lines or causing offense within their tenuous, yet heady...friendship. Heady on her part, anyway—she was still fumbling for the true nature of Fenris's feelings.

Hawke took a deep breath and let her body slip lower, sinking down until the back of her head met the metal bottom of the tub. She thought of fragile things: of the breath leaving her body and rising in bubbles up through the water; of folded cloth blossoms and illiteracy; she thought of snapping words and breaking hearts; she lingered over bending and yielding. And when Hawke needed to come up for air, she did.

She burst upwards with a gasp, water cascading off her. She whipped her hair from her eyes, which cast out a spraying arc of wetness around her. Fenris chuckled before she had time to worry about making a mess. Hawke pushed the rest of her hair out of her face with her fingers, and smoothed it back. She blinked several times, dispelling the lingering droplets caught in her eyelashes. Curling her palms over the edge of the tub, Hawke rested her chin on the backs of her hands, facing Fenris. Peering at him and pondering.

"It's stuffy in here. You should take all your clothes off."

His amusement was immediate and genuine, and Maker bless him for it. He cocked his head with a laugh and asked, "Is that so?"

"Yes," Hawke assured him. "Definitely."

"Thank you for worrying about my well-being and comfort in these dire times," he joked, tone dry.

"Oh, it's no matter—just trying to be a good friend." She faked loftiness, continuing the joke.

"Mm, that reminds me—I want to wash your hair."

"Maker's balls, Fenris! Am I that repulsive?"

"No! _Fasta Vas_. I simply...would like to."

"Are you sure? I can do it myself, you know—I was getting to that part."

"Hawke." He was firm. "I would enjoy the opportunity."

"Alright, then."

He ducked his head so she missed his expression, but he stood and made for the cupboard. He knelt, and rooted around inside until his hand pulled loose a vial of some kind. He peered at the label with a frown. "I'd forgotten about this. Here," he tossed it to her, and Hawke caught it with splash. He resumed rooting, addressing her from inside the cupboard. "It was left here, before, by the previous occupants. I could not read what the label said at the time so I tossed it here and forgot all about it. It's yours, if you like, a bathing oil of some kind—"

She uncorked and upended the vial into her bath. The perfume that flared off hit her harder than the humidity, assailing her senses, sweet fragrance cleaving through all the clean air left in the room.

"...but it's _very rare_ I believe, and outrageously expensive as it's a distilled oil _for use in moderation_ ," Fenris finished dryly. He rose and began to prop open all the windows. "Hawke, I believe you shall carry the smell of peaches on you for the next ten years."

"Well. Good."

A blast of cold air lanced her through the window, and Hawke shuddered and sought refuge by sinking lower in the heavily-perfumed but hot water. Fenris breezed out of the room with a murmur about giving him a moment, and she listened to the retreating pad of his footsteps make a path as he proceeded to open every other window on the floor.

When he returned, he went to the far wall and snagged the back of his chair to drag it nearer to the bathtub. He pulled it close, and motioned for Hawke to spin around and face the other direction while _rolling his shirtsleeves up_.

She caught her lip between her teeth and grinned as she obliged, presenting her back to him. Facing away, Hawke's eyes darted about the room as she waited with bated breath to feel him touch her. She couldn't tell if this was a sex act or not. The tender distance he kept had her stymied.

His hands splashed briefly into the water behind her to wet something. She listened next to the dripping, concise rasp of his palms as he rubbed a soap bar between them and conjured a lather.

He used a single finger to tilt her head slightly back, and then, his fingers were in her hair. She squinched her eyes shut.

"I will endeavor not to get soap in them."

That wasn't why she'd closed her eyes, but she didn't correct him. His hands began to work the lather into her hair, moving against her scalp with a touch that was firm and thorough. There was an economy to his movements as he washed her hair, a briskness that suggested focused intent. Feeling very much like a small child, Hawke gave herself over to the motions of being washed, head tugged this way and that as need be—until he stopped. His fingers were wavering, hesitating, just behind her temples. So she waited. He cleared his throat and smoothed his palms down over her hair to squeeze out excess soap. Hawke continued to sit very still.

Fenris combed his fingers through her hair to the ends, and something anguished tightened in Hawke's chest once she realized it was a caress. She decided that yes, they were doing something dirty.

He gathered her hair in his hands, wrapping it around his fists, and— _pulled_ —until Hawke was sucking back a gasp, staring up at the ceiling. She smiled at the rafters. He released her, and she heard the wooden squeaks of his chair as he shifted in his seat, getting up. He moved across the room to fetch a pitcher.

When he sat down again, Fenris said "Rinse," in rough voice behind her. So she leaned on her palms and tilted her head further back.

"This will be cold," he warned her.

"Good."

The water had cooled to comfortable, and the heat was no longer stinging. Actually. It was quite nice—the lapping. At her chest. On her breasts. The slick licks of water that teased her nipples to hard peaks when every little move sent the waters sloshing slightly. Hawke tried to imagine a scenario in which she could reproduce the pleasing sensation of lapping, warm, insisting water—except _lowe_ —

Fenris poured cold water down her neck.

"Shit!" she hissed, spine going rigid. Fenris tutted and hushed her. He must've chosen the pitcher sitting in front of the open window, for it to be this cold. He chuckled, a dark and sincere sound—before dousing her with ice cold water again.

Sadist. She could hear the smile in it.

He raked his fingers through her hair as he rinsed, something she might've delighted in if the water wasn't so bloody cold that it had her bereft of sensation. Gooseflesh raised on her arms and she shivered with teeth gritted to subvert any coldness-related chattering.

He set the pitcher on the floor. His arm came in front of her, fingertips finding her chin. He tilted her head back and bent over her, leaning forward until she could see him. "Finished," he said.

And then softly kissed her forehead.

Hawke perhaps squeaked. She'd gone breathless and gooey. It was as if she'd forgotten what the man looked like while he was back there, fussing with her hair. Once she saw his face again, and then next, _his lips actually touched her skin_ —

She melted into the bathwater, blushing and beaming. Fenris gave her a half-smile and stood. He took his chair away, returning it to the far wall. Where he sat. And Hawke didn't understand.

"You're going to prune."

" _Good_."

That had come out more sullen than she'd intended, but Fenris didn't seem to mind. He nibbled at the food, and picked up his book. Utterly thwarted, Hawke began to swirl her hands over the top of the water, flattened palm skimming and diving it as she bristled. She pretended she could smooth it like a sheet, trying _very_ hard not to find the metaphor in how her every attempt to smooth water only agitated it further.

He'd kissed her forehead. And meanwhile, Hawke didn't even understand why she wasn't already fuck-tuckered out and dozing flat on her back down on the flagstones. And now Fenris wasn't even paying attention to her.

But he'd kissed her forehead.

She'd washed his floor, and then he'd washed her hair.

Hawke's mind caught the glinting edges of a _something_ , and she started to gather together the dots in her head, connecting them. He'd kissed her on the forehead—an unspoken signal, a wordless reward for her patience. He'd fed her a grape and given her wine, helped her draw a hot bath after she'd scoured his floor—No. Not after she'd scrubbed his floor. _After she'd asked if she should call him Master._

Her heart gained speed as the pieces fit together: he'd brought her up here to take care of her as a reward for figuring out something he needed. He'd kissed her on the forehead to reward her patience for letting him wash her hair. He wasn't ignoring her, over there, pretending preoccupation—he was waiting for her next move. Because they were _playing_.

Was Fenris aware of doing this? Was he conscious of the machinations, or were they now unearthing an innate propensity?

Her mind reeled with risks and rewards; calculating.

"Fenris," she looked up, "Will you read to me?"


	3. Chapter 3

There are moments one wishes to memorize. Those rare minutes carved out of an incandescent perfection that are worthy of being trapped in amber, made crystalline, forever after. Hawke felt this way, that afternoon. Spoiled and selfishly clutching to minutes before they slipped through her fingers like sand in an hourglass, as such things so often do.

She wanted to stop time in that room. If an ex-slave from Tevinter hadn't been the one facing her, she'd have jested about using blood magic to stretch the hours out. Instead, she settled for a wistful sigh and a mental " _Hush, you_ " aimed at her loud and thumping heart. This was the moment she wanted to memorize and capture: when Fenris gave a cheeky sort of smile as he popped a slice of apple into his mouth, in response to her question. Still chewing, he reached for the wine bottle and refilled Hawke's glass before standing and bringing it to her. Even with the water on the warmer end of tepid, now, a flush was persisting high in Hawke's cheeks.

When he sat down again, he filled his own glass, and reached for the Book of Shartan.

 _So I suppose that'd be yes, then_ , Hawke thought. _On the reading thing._ She tossed her wine back and closed her eyes to listen, letting the world blur at the edges until it was whittled down to she and him; he opened the book to a page at random. He spoke for a time and never faltered in his reading, no stumbling over sounds or cumbersome words. She sighed in bliss.

Fenris stopped. "Am I boring you, yet?"

She snorted. "Maker, no. Never. I don't think that's possible. Your voice is the music to my every fantasy."

Oh. She'd said that out loud, hadn't she? She glanced at Fenris, looking for his reaction.

"...Really?" Though drawn out and dubious, the way he'd said the word was through a darker voice, one lowered and furtive. Did he—does that mean—does he like when she talks about her fantasies?

Hawke bit her lip and nodded.

He huffed out a short chortle and pressed his lips together as he looked at her. She could see the confidence brewing, an incoming assuredness. He stood, and moved his chair out of the way.

"Stand up," he ordered. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes flicked up to hers, something shy and wicked glinting in them. "Let me look at you more."

Hawke stood without any further provocation, the water rushing from her. She tilted one hip down and brought her arms up to cross in front of herself, hoping to get him to make that request again. _Let me look at you more_.

He smirked and nodded. "Drop them." He rasped one sword-roughened palm ran down the top of his thigh, "We both know you're not shy."

She gave a coy shrug and let her arms fall. She was nervous, not about her body but about _him_ and _this_ , and couldn't abide her arms hanging limply and awkward at her side, fluttering like a schoolgirl, so she clasped them behind her back and stood up a little straighter: _At attention, soldier_.

She watched his face and ignored the splotchy scarlet flush creeping up neck and over her ears—a blush borne of excitement, nerves, and tinged with a most decadent trepidation. She let him study her at his leisure.

He kept his face a mask of mild interest, aloof as he inspected her, but forgot to curtail his breathing—Fenris was excited, staring at her. His chest rose and fell with short breaths. When she'd gotten into the bath he'd kept his eyes above the water; and with the business of washing, remained a professional. He'd never seen her like this before, this luxury of naked skin, flushed and wet; full of sin. And waiting for him. When they'd slept together, it had been so rushed and frantic that he hadn't even gotten her out of her breastband, and he'd pushed her smalls to the side to enter. Hawke bit the inside of her cheek at the memory, that feeling.

So he was taking his time, now, and really looking at her. Hawke didn't wither under it, one furtive dart of her eyes below his waist confirmed that _yes, he was enjoying this_.

He placed a palm above his navel, cradling a hand to his stomach in a stilling gesture to himself, and swallowed, licking his lips. He had dropped his pretense of calmness, and his face was stark with lust.

Eyes still raking her body, he started to speak and stopped again; keeping something he was unsure of unsaid and shackled to silence. When he next spoke, he croaked. "Hawke, if I ask you to—"

"I would love to." She cut him off.

"Are you s—"

"Yes! Fenris. Yes." She hears herself growing greedier and needy, keening. Overeager.

She'd had the briefest worry about interrupting him, that he might not like it—but she'd heard the insecurity in his voice and rushing headlong into things was a large part of who Hawke was. She was eager to assure Fenris that _Maker's breath_ , was she ever eager.

Hawke's gamble paid off, and she was rewarded with his quiet laugh, quick but rich. He kept their gazes locked and nodded, then stilled—his hand lowered to the front of his breeches and he _cupped_ himself, palm over fabric.

Her hands dropped to her thighs; a glinting sparkle of electricity jumped from Hawke's fingertips. It was a reflex, something unconscious, and when she realized she'd displayed arousal through _magic_ —"Oh, shit, Fenris—I'm sor—"

"Take caution, mage. You're standing in water. I wouldn't want you to get electrocuted."

She smiled a little, embarrassed. "Yes. I'd hate to be blasted unconscious right when the fun part is about to begin."

His lips quirked up. "Keep your hands clasped behind your back. Like you had them."

She moved them behind herself. And watched him. He was teetering on this precipice of some unseen decision, something he wanted. He flicked his eyes up to hers, and drew a single long, elegant finger up the length of his laces, over the bulge waiting beneath them.

Hawke didn't think to stifle the quiet groan before it passed her lips, and had no choice but to permit the subsequent shudder as it rippled over her. "Please," she begged. She was nearly vibrating with excitement. "Please, Fenris, whatever you—"

"Come here."

She wasted no time exiting the tub. She'd been standing knee-deep in water which carried a chill, igniting tiny shivers along her spine that the crackling fire did little to quell. She prickled in gooseflesh and padded over to Fenris, wet and dripping, and sweet-smelling.

She stopped in front of him. She stood close enough that their breaths mingled as they stared at one another. She could smell the hint of wine and spice from his mouth and felt heady from it, drunk with proximity, as his next slow exhale ghosted light and hot over Hawke's bitten-raw lips. Her hair was drying into wild waves. The room remained humid. Fenris was blushing bronze; gold fervor painting his cheeks and eyes dark. Hawke clasped her hands behind her back, and she waited.

"Kneel."

She unclasped her hands for balance and got down to her knees in front of him. She rested her hands atop her naked thighs before looking back up at him.

His breath was coming harder.

The moment was agonizing, and Hawke dug her fingers into the flesh of her thighs to still them from shaking. She waited for his next instruction while staring up at him and trembling, too nervous to make one false move without his advance approval. She wanted to let him set their pace. She wanted to be perfect.

He began to unlace the front of his leather breeches, never once taking his eyes from hers.

She was shaking. Her aching fingers still clenched to her thighs, digging in, breaking skin. She had to fight to keep her eyes trained on his, and not duck to watch the fascinating movement of his hand, drawing laces open inches from her chin. She tried to keep her face raised to his.

Lust won out, and she faltered— _Damn it, Hawke, always too eager_ —and her eyes flicked down to watch what his hand was doing. But he saw, and stilled. He stopped, took her chin, and gently tilted her face up towards his again.

Her next thought was some desire-addled jumble including " _Andraste's fucking tits, Fenris_ ," but only a whimper she allowed herself out loud.

When the laces fell open, he still didn't drop his leathers and gift her with his nakedness. He didn't even untie or remove his smalls. When he finished, Fenris reached in, stroked his cock, and didn't show her. He stared down at her. A smirk, a new confidence, was tugging up the corner of his lips. Hawke was aching from want, sick with it, desperate just for a _look_.

The front of his leathers dipped as he pulled, and then his cock, already hard, was freed. He continued to stroke softly. An electric blue was beginning to tint the whites of his eyes. Hawke knew she couldn't look down, but through her periphery, she spied the lyrium brands pulse beneath his palm, glowing in time with his movements.

Hawke had reached the point where she was having difficulty breathing. She began to pant. Her hand twitched, desperate to address the quickening ache shot between her thighs—

But she stopped herself, assuming Fenris would tell her when it was okay.

The steady motions of his hand ended, and still keeping his cock in hand, he reached with the other to brush the hair out of Hawke's face, a tender gesture. "Suck," he softly commanded.

Hawke wanted to crow, she was so happy, because oh, now she _knows_ —

"Yes, Master."

The effect was immediate. Fenris's head fell back with a thud while his eyes fluttered shut, and he dropped a clenched fist against the wall behind him. He hissed hoarse oaths in his native tongue, pained murmurs of things she would never understand.

Yes. That was definitely the moment she'd wanted. Yes—Hawke was well-gratified that she'd waited.

She hurried to obey, and guided the whole of his cock into her mouth in her haste. She sucked until her cheeks hollowed.

He rewarded her with a growl, the sound soft and sweet, and fingers tightening painfully in her hair. His other hand was flattened against the wall, knuckles white as he clutched at nothing for purchase. The potential thrill for hearing his sounds, Fenris's noises, spurred her.

She licked the length of him— _Maker, I can taste the lyrium_ —still desperate to ease the stinging arousal igniting between her thighs, to touch it. She squeezed her thighs together instead, clenching against the sharpness. Crafting her own bit of friction.

She closed her eyes, concentrating on her task, but after a moment Fenris croaked out, "Look up. Look at me, Hawke. Open your eyes."

It was begging disguised with command. Her eyes flew open. Fenris was curled over her, now, shoulders off the wall and bent forward, cupping the back of her head protectively as she sucked him off.

Hawke couldn't bear the expression in his eyes—it was too much for her—and definitely a mirror of her own feelings—so her eyes fluttered shut against the refracting, dizzying emotions glimmering hot and heavy between them. She groaned around his cock, picking up her pace. And gagged a little. Fenris had a lovely cock, but it was quite _long_.

His breathing was labored, ragged pants burst from his chest, and she could hear the low whine in the back of his throat. She adored it, even as her legs were going numb and her knees starting to ache.

He pushed into her mouth, slightly, only a little, and then—hesitated.

She hummed her consent and pulled him deeper. She tried doing things with her tongue she hoped he'd approve of; curling and flattening, licking and lapping.

Fenris started to recite every Tevinter swear word he knew as he cradled the back of her head. He cursed at her and gently, with great care and _slowly_ , he began to fuck her mouth.

Hawke was game. She'd given him permission. She braced her hands on either side of his hips, palms flat against the wall. She breathed through her nose: lyrium and sex. Oh, and peaches. And then she took him all. Hawke relaxed her throat and pushed her mouth down his cock, to the stem.

He came with a transition so abrupt that it startled Hawke—one moment his hands were cradling her head and he was thrusting into her mouth, a string of molten Tevene flowing from him—

The next they were not touching. Fenris was slumped against the wall, lips parted in a frozen, silent agony as he came on her chest and shoulders with his eyes screwed shut and a shudder. When the shudder subsided, he started to catch his breath. His nostrils flared while tongue wetted his lips. He opened his eyes, and looked down at her.

Hawke arched one tart eyebrow, displeased with the ejaculate dripping from her chin.

He barked out a short laugh, and blushing, ducked his face away—when it came back there was something in it that was sad. Something...self-loathing?

He told her, "I fear I've made a mess of you, again."

She dared to stand without permission, and wobbled on numb, wooden legs over to the wash basin. She grabbed a pitcher and dunked it into the cask containing cold, clean water. She marched over to the tub with a shiver, stood still in chilly and forgotten bathwater that lapped against her knees. She locked gazes with him first.

She dumped the pitcher over her head next.

Spluttering, she said, "There. Fixed it. I'm clean again, Fenris."

And Fenris began to _laugh_ , he threw his head back with genuine abandon at her antic, and he just _laughed_. The sound was full and rich, and his body shook with it. Hawke was so proud of being the cause, so pleased with herself, that she wanted to run across the room and fling herself at Fenris, smashing into his embrace—but she didn't know if they were _there_ yet. At that place. Or if he would even like it.

His laughter slowed and next Fenris sighed, a smile still anointing his stunning features. He straightened, back leaving the wall, and took hold of the untucked hem to his tunic, pulling it up over his head in one smooth movement as he shucked it. He stuffed his stiffening cock back into his smalls and hitched his leathers up, leaving the laces undone. His leathers sagged around his hips, which drew Hawke's appreciation to the musculature there—how the muscles formed an _arrow_ —

He crossed to her in two quick strides. Putting one arm across her back, he slung the other behind the backs of her knees, and then the floor seemed to go sideways as he lifted. He was carrying her from the room. And Hawke did _not_ like it.

"Fenris, put me down! I'm too heavy!" she squealed.

"Hush," he muttered, dismissive.

So she did.


	4. Chapter 4

The distance from the washroom to bedroom was short, but long enough for Hawke's mind to skid into these rapid recollections of _how_ he could be carrying her. They were almost of a height, after all—Hawke was only a few inches shorter than he was, but since Fenris insisted on remaining barefoot, half the time Hawke's boots added an inch or two. They were nearly at eye level most of the time.

She knew he was strong, knew he was quite tall for an elf, but still—Hawke was a human woman and a thick one at that; she is curve where he is line, and she could not imagine how he could be able to carry her with so little effort if not for the lyr—

He dropped her onto his bed. The sheets smelled clean, and of cedar, and Hawke forgot about what she'd even been thinking when she rolled onto her back to see Fenris hadn't backed away. In fact, he had bent one knee on the side of the bed, and was looming over her.

There was a moment where they both stared at each other. Daring.

"I'll start without you, Fenris, I swear by the Maker's holy arsehole."

He laughed softly at that. The low tone of the sound made it dark but still full of warmth and mirth; sounding much like a kiss could taste, perhaps, from a tall elf who'd been imbibing in dark red wine.

He moved his other knee onto the bed, straddling her thighs, and leaned forward, bracing one forearm beside her head to support his weight as he lay over her. They were barely touching, but she could feel the warmth from him. His nearness. The slight glow cast from his lyrium brands painted light blue lines onto her skin. He brought his lips so close to hers that Hawke found herself suddenly unable to breathe.

"Please," she whispered, mouth mere inches from his. "Please, _please_ kiss me."

 _This_ , she thought—this was how Hawke liked the sound of her own voice. Not echoing alone in some cathedral-like empty antechamber, but a breathless whimper; something intimate and tantalizingly close to Fenris' lips.

His lips opened at her request, an automatic acquiescence—but he paused. His eyes glinted with a hint of challenge, and he instead waited. He was waiting for the word. For Hawke to make the polite, correct request.

Eyes locked to his, Hawke licked her lips—eager to assist.

" _Please_ , master," she asked through a sly smile, keeping her voice small. She tucked the smirk away and bit down on any lingering silliness she felt, any inclination crack a joke or make him laugh. Instead, she scraped her bottom lip between her teeth and blushed.

His eyes fluttered shut and his brow furrowed as he dropped his forehead to hers. A soft rumble came from deep within his throat and he _shuddered_.

Hawke concentrated on their points of contact and tried not to clutch at him, drag his body flush against hers. Bare chest to bare chest. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed, fingers twisting into the sheet at her sides. She gave him this pause, trembling with want and waiting.

It was almost jarring when his lips crashed into hers, landing with a kiss more searing than she ever remembered feeling before. It drew forth an immediate and unfettered moan from her and Fenris inhaled it, consumed the breath entirely, and then kissed her harder; teeth knocked and tongue tasted as he asked for more.

And oh, Hawke _gave_.

She raised her hips against his, her fingers clutched in and wrinkling his nice, clean sheets. She writhed, and unwittingly unmade his bed. Fenris fit his palm over the swell of Hawke's hip, hand curling over the curve until his fingers dug divots into her flesh, and he smoothed the slight jut of her hipbone with his thumb. He pressed her into the bed. She arched her chest up into his and marveled at the sensation of how her nipples had hardened into jewel-points and ached for contact— _actually ached_ —which she never knew was a real thing. Hawke had always thought it was just something Varric had written in Swords & Shields because it sure sounded like the kind of thing a man would write about womens' bodies without actually understanding how womens' bodies worked but evidently it was a _real_ thing—

She forgot about Varric and any nipples other than her own, as she mewled and keened against Fenris. She likely sounded shameless, whimpering into their desperate kissing while her breasts brushed deliberately against his chest. Did she dare bring her arms around his neck—pull herself flush against him, no space left between them?

Fenris took hold of Hawke's wrists and held them above her head.

 _Well_ , she thought. _That answers that, then._

He was pinning her down. He pushed a thigh between hers and nudged until her legs were opening to him, and he ground his hips into hers. He was still wearing pants, but _she_ wasn't, and Hawke could feel the hard press of his erection through leather against her bare cunt. And she couldn't help but cry out against his mouth.

Fenris broke the kiss, breathless, as his eyes scanned her face. His lyrium brands glowed faintly.

She panted. They stared at each other for a moment more before Hawke lifted her head to place a gentle, timid kiss on Fenris' chin.

He almost smiled, and sat back, chest rising and falling with his quick breath. He brought his hands to her thighs—

 _Almost_ to her thighs, that is. He stopped just short of actually touching her. His hands hovered close enough for her to feel the considerable warmth emanating from his palms. At which, of course, Hawke growled and threw her head back in exasperation.

And he chuckled.

He rested back on his haunches; cock a hard bulge in his smalls and unlaced pants, looking _thoroughly_ kissed and devastatingly beautiful—and he began to drag featherlight fingertips down Hawke's thighs, barely touching.

He watched her react with a riveted scrutiny, shaking his hair out of his eyes to do so. His breathing was coming more evenly, but his chest still rose and fell with faster-than-normal breaths. Hawke could see his pulse fluttering in his throat, as wild as hers was, and she wanted to scream and shout her happiness at that—she was _doing_ that, she was the cause of it.

He trailed his whisper of a touch behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on hers as he reached her ankles. He parted his lips, looking like he was about to crack a joke, but instead he fluttered his fingers against the hypersensitive soles of her feet.

Hawke squealed and blasphemed. She yanked her legs up to get her ticklish feet away from him, throwing out several haphazard whip-like kicks of her shins in the process. He laughed and easily caught her by the ankles, one in each hand. Fenris placed a quick kiss on the inside of her left ankle. It was a small kiss, the tiniest of gestures by comparison, but she'd felt it march a hot path straight up to her stuttering, love-struck, and furious heart.

"My apologies, Hawke," Fenris explained, one dark eyebrow raised, "but I had a pressing need to know if the Champion of Kirkwall was ticklish or not."

Hawke considered kicking him lightly since her feet were already teasingly close to those oversensitive pointy elvhen ears of his, but she settled for a well-placed _harrumph_ and flicked her gaze to the ceiling as she pouted.

He laughed. He smiled—a full smile. It shone from every corner of his face.

Keeping her ankles in his hands, he slowly parted her legs until they opened wide enough for Fenris to kneel between them. He pushed her legs apart, further back, warm hands sliding up the backs of her calves to hook behind her knees. He lost his smile as he was able to push her knees higher and higher. When Hawke's knees were pushed nearly up to her shoulders, she fought the red flush rising on her chest and neck at being so exposed. She was opened to him. Her arms were tired, but still clutching the edge of the mattress above her head—right where he'd placed them.

His mouth was parted as he took her in. He looked...lost, somehow, as he marveled.

This man. _Maker_. This man.

He dragged his eyes away from the demonstration of her impressive flexibility—pausing for a moment to stare at her wet, wanting little cunt—and looked at her again, struck dumb, and seeking explanation.

"Fenris. Would you like to see me put my legs behind my head?" she asked patiently, teasing him. She rolled her hips a little, relishing when his eyes darted down and fixed on the movement. His hands squeezed the backs of her thighs, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard.

Unraveling his careful composure would be the death of Hawke. It was too, too delicious.

He entered his head into a slow nod to agree as he looked down at her legs spread beneath him, but it turned quickly into a shake instead as he changed his mind. "Yes. Desperately. Another time, perhaps. I've plans, now."

When he let go of her pinned knees they sprang forward slightly, so he took her hands and brought them towards her thighs, and pushed her legs back again. She understood, and hooked her hands behind her knees, holding them spread wide open for him.

Their first time had been heated, but oh-so-quick—they were in such a rush to taste and touch each other that it became a beautiful, bruising cacophony: a blur of tight grips and quick, hard thrusts. They had not taken the time to learn each other's bodies and truly savor the experience, and perhaps this is why he'd left that night. It had been, as he said, too much. Too much, too soon. Hawke wouldn't make that mistake again.

So even though she was panting, trembling, and _aching_ with desire—she let him look at her. She held her sarcastic tongue firmly in check and pressed her lips together to hold back her automatic jests. She understood what this was about. It was about Fenris needing to be in control. It was comfortable for him. And Hawke, well, she was thrilled to surrender. She _wanted_ it.

Of course, the reward of being made to wait is that when his hands covered her breasts, finally, at long last, Hawke's head fell back and she emitted an agonized whimper. Fenris kneaded and squeezed. He pushed them together and watched as they came apart again. He flicked his thumbs over her nipples and then pinched one, and she squeaked, flustered, but it was a noise of absolute pleasure.

So he leaned down and lightly bit one. He licked while it was captured between his teeth, and Hawke's soul left her body and ascended into the Fade. That's what it felt like, anyway.

He cupped the side of her face and began kissing her neck. Hawke threw her head back to accommodate, a soft whine breaking off from her mouth. She rolled her hips against his again; and then, again. Desperate. Maker help her if Fenris ever got around to exploring her cunt with the same devotion he displayed in learning the rest of her body.

His palm drifted from her face to the side of her throat as he kissed a line down her neck, firm lips pressing into her skin over and over again. Hawke was fervently hoping the path of his mouth would continue trailing south when he sat up and looked down at his hand—to where it rested atop her neck.

"It's okay," Hawke was quick to encourage him. Though, she didn't quite understand what it was she encouraged. She just trusted.

Licking his lips, Fenris brought his palm around to lay on the center of Hawke's throat. And then, without questioning the impetus, he slowly closed his hand over her neck and gave a little squeeze. His brands glowed brighter, and an electric blue began to seep into the corners of his eyes.

It was a bizarrely gentle gesture. And it activated something within Hawke. Her breath stopped, caught in her throat, but her heart thundered on. She didn't understand this act but welcomed it nonetheless, so starved was she for his touch. She was so wet from his attentions, despairing with wild need, that it was making her feral for him. She wanted to flip them both over and _impale_ herself on the length of him.

Fenris had a different reaction. His eyes skittered about, roved over Hawke—open and wanting beneath him, his hand on her neck—and he inhaled sharply, shuttering closed as he yanked himself off her and snatched his hand back. He covered his mouth with it.

Hawke released her legs and sat up on her elbows, worried for him.

"Hawke, I don't know why—I'm so—"

"It turned me on." She interrupted him before his self-hatred could carry him too far out of reach.

He swallowed. "Truly?"

"Maker, yes." She flopped back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She fumbled for words to fix this, to patch the tension and soothe him with. Right. _Not much good with words, me_ , she remembered, and reached for his hand laying atop his thigh.

He overturned his palm for her, expecting for Hawke to grasp his hand in hers—which, to be sure, was alone an act that made Hawke's heart soar into the rafters—but that wasn't what she had in mind.

"May I?" she asked.

He nodded and held his hand out to her without question.

She took his hand, lowered it between her thighs, and pressed his fingertips to her clit.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Hawke gasped, her head falling back. She reached for a pillow and covered her face with it, pressing her next series of small moans into the fabric as she held Fenris' hand steady and began to writhe against it, rubbing herself against the very callouses she'd covertly coveted for so long. She dimly thought of how many times she'd touched herself like this, wishing it was his hand instead. This was close. Not _quite_ what she'd had in mind, but it was him.

Fenris used his free hand to rip the pillow from her face, startling a squeak out of her as wisps of her hair whipped forward. He wanted to see her.

"We need to talk," Fenris said, very seriously, as Hawke used his motionless hand to wring out an orgasm.

She laughed before she could think better of it. She stopped and released his hand, flinging an arm over her face to hide her embarrassment.

He chuckled too, but it was subdued. He dragged her arm away from her face and made her look at him. _Right_ , she remembered. He wanted to see her. He wanted to read what was on her face.

 _Can he see the ardent, obsessive love behind the overwrought_ red _clouding my face?_ Hawke wondered.

"I didn't say you should stop," he muttered, and quirked his lips. His hand, glowing slightly with lyrium like the rest of him, sought the very center of her again.

"Oh, fuck. Fenris! Yes. Please. Please—that. Yes."

"I enjoy hearing you beg."

"... _Fuck_."

"You're especially foul-mouthed when you're left wanting, aren't you?"

"Fu—just keep talking, Fenris," she gasped, as his thumb circled her clit. _Is this what he meant_ , she wondered, _with 'we need to talk'? We need to dirty talk?_

She briefly imagined how her own sex talk would fare against Fenris and that darker-than-sin voice of his, and her mind brought forth a vulgar and absurd mental image of the two of them, together. She flushed scarlet, imagining it.

"Tell me what you are thinking," he demanded, soft and dangerous.

She squirmed, not wanting to relinquish the mental image that had just flitted across her thoughts.

His hand stopped moving between her legs.

"No!" she almost wept.

He took his hand away entirely, following through on his implicit threat. He leaned forward and planted his fists into the bed on either side of Hawke's head. He loomed over her.

"I said," he began in a low, serious growl, " _Tell me_."

She shuddered and clamped her thighs together to abate the, by that point, painful pressure of her arousal. She shut her eyes and let her head fall to the side.

Fenris was quiet for a moment, considering. She peeked up at him and the sly smirk catching at the corners of his mouth said it all. He dipped his head to breathe soft, dark words into her ear.

"I could tell you to do anything and you'd do it, wouldn't you?" he murmured.

Hawke sucked on her bottom lip, somewhat chagrined, as she nodded. It wasn't that she was ashamed to admit the astounding extent of her desire to him, it was that she didn't know if it was...acceptable. In her head, Hawke was wondering: _Is this normal? Are we normal? Does this make us broken? Is this what love looks like—?_

"So? What was it? What were you just thinking about?" The edge of danger had left his voice and he was quieter now, serious as he peered at her intently. She could see the traces of insecurity beginning behind his gaze and the brands of—ah. The glow from the lyrium brands began to fade.

Nervous, she chewed on her lip. No good with words, her. But sometimes...they were a necessity.

She cleared her throat. "You said we need to talk, so I...my mind dragged it somewhere filthy. Ever since"—she stopped with a frustrated sigh, and collected better words—"It's, ah, a habit…? I suppose."

"Go on." He nipped her neck, his hand coasting across the peaks of her breasts again—rewards.

"And so...just now, I was thinking of your naughty pillow talk, as I have so often, and—oh _fuck_ —"

Two of his fingers plunged past her entrance, crooking come hither within her. She gasped, lost all rational thought, and jutted her hips up; wanting more, wanting deeper, wanting faster—

He stopped.

Hawke squealed her frustration and pounded a futile fist into the mattress before she broke out into a warm peal of laughter. She was no good with words, but if she was going to ensure this man's hand (...her...master's hand?) continue moving like that inside her, she needed to make peace with articulating some shameful secrets.

"Oh, fuck you, Fenris. Honestly. Fuck you so much," she groaned through a giggle.

He chuckled quietly before teasing her, "Well, wasn't that your endgame? If you're still interested in pursuit of your goal, that is…"

"Yes"— _his hands, Makerhishands_ she thought wildly, as the one still crooked inside her began to move again, though at an excruciatingly slow pace. "Fuck—I hate you," she squirmed and gasped. He chuckled.

"Sadist," she hissed.

"All things considered—it's entirely possible," he admitted frankly, hand still slowly working her. The movement made her breasts jostle. He hooked his thumb so that it brushed against her clit with each thrust of his fingers. "Now stop trying to steer us off course," he smiled, and used his free hand to pinch her nipple. _Hard_.

She made a very unladylike (and loud) noise.

"Fenris," she began on an exhale, steadying herself and gritting her teeth. "I was thinking about you talking because—Andraste's _tits_ —shit—because"—she paused to pant, her fists clenching and twisting into his sheets as his speed increased—"because for the past three years that has been—fuck, _Fenris_ —my most prolific fantasy and I—I have often— _fucked myself_ with my own fingers—" she hissed, as his motions came faster, harder, nearly driving her up the bed. Hawke braced a hand against the wall above her head and pushed down, wanting more, more, more—

"I have made myself come to thoughts of you, images of you, memories of you— _only_ you, oh _Fenris_ —ceaselessly for so long and— _Maker's mercy_ —so just now—when— _yes, yes, harder, yes,_ like that—fuck—just now when I was thinking about how terrible I would be at pillow talk in return—saying naughty things for you—the first thing that popped into my mind was—was just an image of me blissfully bouncing on your cock, panting and chanting ' _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you_ '—yes yes yes, Fenris! _Fuck_!"

Fenris tried to stifle his startled chuckle at her sudden increase in volume and _failed_ , so he bit his lip and pressed his face into her neck to quell his own laughter while covering Hawke's mouth with his hand, muffling the high scream as she came.

When her senses returned, she unclenched her thighs enough for Fenris to withdraw his hand. She'd come so hard that they'd clamped together, halting his fingers. Hawke crossed her arms above her head, still breathless. She moaned into her folded elbows, "Oh, I hate you so much right now."

"No, you don't." He was quiet, but assured.

She swallowed. "No, I don't," she said thickly. Her breath then hitched and betrayed her.

He pulled down her arms to cradle her tear-soaked face. His expression softened, and grew so fond that it shattered Hawke's heart. She closed her eyes, mortified, as her tears started to fall harder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Fenris said nothing, but kissed the tracks of her tears. He kissed them from her cheeks, lapped them up from her chin, nipped where they'd dripped down her neck. His breath tickled her skin and she giggled, sniffling, not brave enough to open her eyes again yet. He kissed the tears trapped in her eyelashes.

He pressed a soft, slow kiss into her mouth and Hawke tasted the salt his lips were laced with: her own strange happiness. She sniffed again. She—when she'd gotten stupid and gooey and started crying—when she'd made things messy—she'd been terrified that he would leave. Like the last time.

When she opened her eyes again, and after wiping them with the heels of her palms and blinking to clear them, Fenris was right there. He was gazing at her steadily, expression tender.

He cleared his throat. "Nothing," he told her, pinning her beneath his piercing gaze, "is wrong with you. Nothing, Marian Hawke. I find you perfect in every way."

The most resounding bliss of success she'd ever felt came crashing into her body at that moment, a hurricane of euphoria that devastated her, leveled her. And Fenris weathered the storm. He rolled onto his side, gathering her into his arms. He sheltered her. Hawke buried her face in his chest to hide her expression and the fresh downpour of tears. And this time, Fenris let her.

"I have never wanted anyone—anything—so bad as this," she said, voice dropping into a hushed whisper, as if she could reduce the emotional impact of saying the words by lessening the physical presence of them. Even though they desperately needed saying. Even though they were a long time coming, a few years overdue. She tucked her fists under her chin.

"I want you so badly—and I did, from the moment I lay eyes on you in the alienage—and it has blindsided me ever since. When we, you know, the one night we—" she faltered.

"Slept together," he murmured against her hair. His hands were running up and down her back, tracing the line of her spine in a steady, soothing motion.

"Yes. That only made it worse for me—the wanting. Because then I _knew_. You know—" she brought her face up and looked at him, intense but sincere. "I knew what it was like to be with you. Then I didn't just imagine, I remembered. And I still wanted you just as desperately."

He kissed near her hairline, thumb stroking her cheekbone.

"Well, worse even, after that," she addressed his neck. Her earnest and uncomfortable words were tumbling out faster and unbidden now, they'd become a splinter; stuck inside her unsaid for so long—and splinters need extracting—

"Because it was this earth-shattering thing for me, Maker's balls, the kind of thing to topple mountains. And, Fenris—I know we moved too fast. I know why you had to leave. I know that now. But—I didn't then. All I knew was that you just...walked away. You left. That night, right after, just like that."

He pressed his lips to her forehead and left them there, a strong hand cupping the nape of her neck. She knew, beyond a shadow of any doubt, that if she peeked up she would find Fenris with his eyes screwed shut in supplication. She snuggled closer, burrowing into his chest.

"I mean, if you had been terrible—if you'd been a lousy lay," she joked, "then this would all be fine! just"—she clucked her tongue and dusted her fingers off—"Goodbye!"

He snorted. She felt some of her hair move from his breath. "But, as it happens, you have a somewhat delightful cock and I'd be happy to get better acquainted with it."

He pulled his face back and looked down at her with a wry twist set into his lips. It was an unspoken demand: _Speak plainly_. He wanted her to continue with this brutal streak of honesty and not get too glib with him.

"Alright, alright," she relented. She took a breath and unclenched the fists tucked against his chest, wanting to touch him but wavering, worrying— _the lyrium_?

She settled for tracing skin in the scant space between brands, not touching, and she whispered the right words to his chest.

He tilted her chin up and cocked an ear; she'd spoken to softly for him to hear.

Maker, his eyes. His eyes. Their passions spent, the flash of blue has receded and she now peered into clear, fervent green. The pale green that heralds spring.

"I want to worship you," she told him bluntly.

It made him bashful. He blushed and dropped his gaze. "I—I don't know what to—"

Hawke clamped a hand over his mouth before he could finish. "I'm not done."

He quirked a dark brow, amused, and maybe laden with a fair bit of warning.

"Sorry," she whispered, sheepish, and tried to snatch back her hand. Fenris caught it and kissed her palm.

"Before you continue, the ah...that _mental image_ you presented me with—"

"What, me bouncing on your cock? That one?" she laughed as she said it, and flapped a hand.

Fenris chuckled and leaned in close to her ear. He made his voice breathless and supple as he chanted, " _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._ "

Oh, her heart stopped. It just called it quits at that point. She had to sternly remind herself to keep breathing, and fought to remember basic bodily autonomy. Blinking: _check_. Breathing: _check_. Heart: _not dead. Doing a mad dance about. Let it be._

She knew it didn't quite count as Fenris really saying it, in that he was only mocking her earlier words, but she couldn't ignore the vicarious thrill hearing the words gave her: a temporary triumph. Fenris may never be comfortable saying it, she imagined. She was somewhat certain it would be harder to drag the word " _love_ " out of the muck and mire from the misery of his past than it would be for them to reclaim " _Master_ " together. But she also knew she could be happy with him, without hearing it, for a very, very long time. She might become impatient to hear some very important words if ever she someday became ripe-to-bursting with some silver-haired elvhen spawn in her, but until then—

"Did you truly mean it? Or is it part of…" he trailed off as he struggled for the name of what they'd just done.

Hawke sat bolt upright and stared down at him, aghast. "Fenris, honestly! Do you not know? Is it not painfully obvious—"

"Make it abundantly clear." He gave a wan smile and Hawke knew it then, the sharp words hanging unspoken in the air, too sharp to utter lest they burst the bubble of their moment: I was a slave, Hawke.

She took a moment to breathe and make damn sure she wasn't going to burst into tears—again— _Andraste's tits, what had that been about_ —and pressed her lips into a thin line. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she hesitated. "Wait a moment—is _this_ part of—whatever? Making me profess my true feelings?"

Fenris was quick to shake his head no, and folded an arm behind his head to prop it up. His other hand rested on his lower stomach, relaxed above the still-undone lacing of his leggings.

This fucking elf.

This fucking elf would be the end of her, by the blessed Andraste. The realization came (renewed) as she noted the lithe lines of his abdominal muscles, the leanness of him, and she might've even sighed at the sight of a bicep bunched behind his head.

When her eyes returned to his face, he was raising an eyebrow at her. She wrinkled her nose at him, unashamed of her open admiration. He was amused. "We're in a...recess, I believe, at the moment."

"We should have signals. Words, you know. Or something."

"We will."

His use of the future tense did not go unnoticed by Hawke and she held up a finger, making him wait as she took some time to commit that moment to memory. She would store it next to the one and only time she'd heard him giggle: the first night she'd met Fenris, when she flirted awkwardly by complimenting his body after they'd slaughtered the slavers trying to reclaim it. Once satisfied that at least a faint whisper of his confident " _We will_ " was lain next to the echo of his giggle, she dropped her finger and looked back down at him.

The way he was looking back at her erased every last trace of malingering uneasiness she'd had about finally saying it. So she did.

"I love you, Fenris. It staggers me. I love you so much more than I ever thought I'd be capable of loving...anyone."

The weight of the moment ensnared him and he sat up beside her. He crooked one knee beside her thigh and propped an elbow over it, leaning into her. With his remaining hand planted on the other side of Hawke, he surrounded her.

"It's terrible," she sniffed. "I can't say I recommend it."

That brought a quiet rumble of laughter out of him and he was still smiling as he pulled her against him, and folded her tightly enough into his arms that it stole her very breath. And she shivered.

"Hm, are you cold? Ah, forgive me, I neglected the fire. And the windows are open. And you're naked. _Venhedis_! Clumsy of me."

She rushed to assure him that she was comfortable; not willing to let him leave the bed just yet. In truth Hawke had simply forgotten to be cold, or that she was naked, and she'd been too distracted to notice that the room had grown dim. What glowed the brightest was him. The lines in his skin. The lyrium. So if it was cold in there, she couldn't feel it. She flirted with a brief temptation to feign a second shiver and pouting until Fenris offered to warm her up. He'd know, though. Fenris would be able to see right through her.

"So," Hawke remarked, "the _windows_ are open."

He just chuckled. His white teeth glowed as bright as the lyrium with his wide, impish, almost-grin. "Better to make peace with it now, Hawke—half of Hightown heard you screaming."

She groaned, high and girlish exasperation, and in a fit of pique, pulled a pillow to swat him with. "I hate you, Fenris."

He tutted her and smirked. "At least one hundred of my neighboring noblemen now know that to be a bald-faced lie, Hawke."

She made to swat him with the pillow and insisted, "Hate!"

He laughed, batted it away, and said, "Yes, well. I hate you too." He looked up, unsure, as if checking to see if she'd caught his meaning, and _oh_ , she had. Hawke was clutching the pillow to her chest and resting her chin on the top edge of it, staring at him with big, adoring eyes.

He breathed a faint sigh of relief and looked away again, bashful under the circumstances. His eyes caught on the faint light still slanting in through the window. "It's getting late. You should stay the night," he decided.

"That right?"

"Yes," he said, firm. He stretched his arms overhead, joints in his shoulders popping. "Additionally, I cannot in good conscience send you home in the dress you arrived in. It's ridiculous."

Hawke threw her head back and laughed. "What shall I wear home, then?"

"You brought no other clothing? Oh, what a shame. It appears you simply shall have to stay here forever."

"And just remain naked, I suppose?"

"Naturally."

"Well," Hawke smiled, "Good."

Fenris curved his lips in a small, satisfied line and rested back against the wall. Hawke yanked up the edges of the sheet she'd successfully mussed and tussled with it until it came free, and she wrapped it around herself. She got off the bed and stood, wobbling a little, and made for the door.

"Ah—Hawke?"

She spun around, feigning innocence. "Hm?"

"Where are you off to?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd pop 'round down at the Hanged Man for a bit, maybe play some cards."

Fenris looked so baffled that she almost couldn't keep up the joke, and struggled not to giggle. She deadpanned, "Is that not what we do after we're...intimate? I thought we always walked away from one another in the middle of the night following an intimate encounter— _oof_ —" she laughed breathlessly as Fenris picked her up around her middle and deposited her on the bed again.

" _Fasta vas_ , woman, are you ever going to let that go?" he muttered.

"No!"

"Well—good," he snorted. "I suppose I deserve it."

"Fenris," Hawke stated, pretending to suddenly be very serious.

"Hawke," he echoed, equally somber.

"When are you going to take your sodding pants off?"

He barked out a short laugh. "I don't know. Perhaps when I feel you've earned it."

"Will I earn it if I stay the night?"

"Oh, you're staying the night regardless," he said easily.

When Fenris got up to close the window, Hawke smirked in the shadow of the sunset behind him, where she knew he couldn't see it. A funny little smile played on her lips.

"Yes, Master."


End file.
